The Selkie Spell (Seal Island Trilogy) (19 page)

Tara could still hear her laughing as she walked out the door and into the street.  A simple question between friends, she thought, pausing to marvel at the recent changes that had swept through the village in the weeks leading up to the festival.  Purple petunias burst from planters on the steps of the market.  Fuchsia curled wild over the stone walls lining the road up to her cottage.  Geraniums popped in pinks and reds from the boxes under the windows of the pub.

Spring was rolling out its vibrant carpet for summer and somehow, in that same snatch of time, she had managed to make a friend.  A true friend.  A friend who asked about her love life.  Who prodded her for details.

Laughter bubbled up in her own throat.  She had a love life, she thought, walking across the street to the market.  An actual lover.  One who couldn’t keep his hands off her.  Not because he wanted to claim her or change her.  But because he wanted her for who she was.  Who she really was.

Maybe Kelsey was right when she said that sometimes you don’t get proof.  Sometimes you just have to believe.  If everything in life was on the surface, in perfect light for all to see, there would be no mystery.  There would be no magic.  There would be nothing to wonder about or dream about or believe in other than what you had, what you could touch, or what you could see.

If she hadn’t believed in herself, she would never have escaped her husband.  If she hadn’t believed in a life that could be different, in a future that could have some promise or hope, she could never have run.  She could never have found her way here.

The bell chimed as Tara walked into the market and Sarah Dooley glanced up from her ledger, lifting an eyebrow.  “What are you smiling about?”

“Nothing,” Tara answered, blushing.  “I was just noticing how beautiful the village looked all cleaned up for the festival.  I had no idea everyone would go to so much trouble for one weekend.”

“It’s not just one weekend,” Sarah explained.  “It’s our biggest week of sales all year.”

Tara put a carton of eggs into her basket.  “Kelsey mentioned that the festival could draw hundreds of tourists.  Is that true?”

Sarah nodded.  “Last year we had almost three hundred.”

“Three hundred?”  Tara glanced up.  “But there’s only the one B&B.  Where do they all stay?”

“Some of us take in boarders.  Others camp out on the beaches in tents.”

“What if it rains?”

“Then people get wet,” Sarah answered, matter-of-factly.

“Are they allowed to drink on the beaches?”

“This is Ireland, dear.  They can drink wherever they want.”

“What if someone gets out of control?”

“No one’s ever gotten out of control.”

“But what if they did?”

“Then the garda would take care of it.”

“The Irish police?”

Sarah nodded.

Tara relaxed a little.  “So there will be police on the island that weekend?”

“Yes.”  Sarah Dooley watched Tara curiously.  “Why?  You seem awfully concerned about this festival.”

“I just don’t know what to expect.”  She picked up a cluster of bananas, added them to her basket, and walked up to the register.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” Sarah said, scanning her items.  “These things have a way of working themselves out.”

The phone rang and Sarah went to pick it up.  Tara glanced down at an American gossip magazine poking out of the display rack and in a moment of indulgence leafed through the pages absently, waiting for Sarah to get off the phone and finish ringing up her purchases.

“Yes,” Sarah said into the phone.  “I ordered three cases of brass shamrocks and only received two…  No, I did not order two.  You can check your records.  I have mine right here.  On April 28th I called and ordered three cases of brass shamrocks…  You can’t find your records?  Yes, I can hold.”

Sarah sighed, turning back to Tara.  “Sorry about that.”

“No problem.”  Tara held up the magazine.  “What’s this doing here?”

“It’s for the tourists.”

“But don’t most people come here for an authentic Irish experience?”

“Most, yes,” Sarah admitted, ringing up the rest of Tara’s purchase.  “But there are always a few who’d rather spend the day sunbathing and reading about their favorite stars.”

Tara laughed, glancing back down at the glossy pages of the magazine, but when she saw the face in the picture staring back at her, the sound died in her throat.  “Oh my god,” she whispered.

“What is it, dear?” Sarah glanced up, her brows knitting in concern over her spectacles when she saw the blood draining from Tara’s face.

It was the nurse.  The one who’d helped her escape. 
She was dead?
  Tara scanned the article. 
“Police believe Carol Johnson’s murder is connected to her involvement with Jacob Cohen—arrested last month for supplying hundreds of women with forged paperwork and new identities to escape abusive relationships.”

Tara shoved the magazine back into the rack.

“Tara?  Are you okay?

“I’m fine,” Tara answered, reaching for her bags.

“Are you sure?  Because you don’t look—”

But she was already out the door.  Sarah held the change in her hand, the bells on her door jingling through the empty store.  She watched the other woman duck past the pub and walk up the hill toward her cottage.  Pulling the magazine out of the rack, Sarah flipped through the pages, wondering what could have caused such a strange reaction in a woman who was usually so calm and collected.

***

“Have you seen Tara?” Caitlin asked, sticking her head out of the kitchen of the pub.

“No,” Dominic turned, reached for a bottle of Bailey’s.  “I thought she was going to run to the store.”

“That was over an hour ago.”

“An hour ago?”  Dominic paused, his hand pulling back from the bottle.  “I didn’t realize it had been that long.”

Caitlin nodded, glancing up at her neighbor’s faces at the bar.  Spotting Sarah Dooley sliding onto a stool beside Brennan she called over to her.  “Sarah, did Tara come into your store a little while ago?”

Sarah nodded.  “She did.  But it was the strangest thing.  She was looking through one of my magazines and all of a sudden she just took off before I even had the chance to give her back her change.”

“Did you see where she went?” Dominic asked.

“I think she was headed back up to her cottage.  At least that’s the general direction she walked.”

Wiping his hands on a towel, Dominic slid out from behind the bar.  “I’ll go up there and find out what’s wrong.”

“What’s wrong with who?” Donal asked walking into the pub and stripping out of his fishing gear.

“Tara.”

“Tara left.”

Dominic’s hand stilled on the door.  “What?”

“She left,” Donal explained.  “About an hour ago.  On the ferry.”

“Tara left?” Caitlin exclaimed.  “To go where?”

“To the mainland.”  Donal looked back and forth between Caitlin and Dominic’s shocked faces, feeling suddenly uneasy.  “She said she needed to pick up a few things you’d forgotten to order for the festival.”

“We didn’t forget to order anything for the festival,” Caitlin said, looking up at Dominic.  “Did we?”

“No,” Dominic said, tightly, striding over to where Donal was shucking his boots by the fire.  “Give me your keys.”

“What keys?”

“The keys to your boat.”

“I don’t see what the problem is,” Donal protested.  “She said she was coming right back.”

 “Your keys.”  Dominic held out his hand.  “Now.  And Sarah, get me a copy of that magazine.”

Sam Holt paced the length of his hotel room, counting the rings of his former partner’s cell. 
One…two…three…

“Joe Scanlon,” a gravelly voice barked into the phone on the fourth ring.

“Joe.  It’s Sam.”

“Sam?”  Joe said after a long pause.  “This is a surprise.”

“I need a favor.”

“A favor?”  Joe laughed into the receiver.  “Since when do I owe you a favor?”

“I might have a lead on a case you’re working on.”

There was another long pause.  “What case?”

“The Carol Johnson murder.”

“The nurse?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Joe said, slowly.  “What do you know?”

Spotting something silver and glittering under the bed, Sam bent down and picked up a single earring.  He turned it over in his hand, studying the intricate shape of the rose.  “First, you tell me what you know.  Then I’ll tell you what I know.”

“Come on, Sam.  It doesn’t work that way.  You know that.”

“I stopped playing by the rules a long time ago, Joe.  You know
that
.”

Joe sighed.  “Where are you, Sam?”

Sam’s hand closed over the piece of jewelry.  “In a hotel.”

“In what city?”

“Can’t tell you that.”

“Of course you can’t.”  Joe let out a long breath.   “I’m worried about you, kid.”

“Don’t be.”

“Look, Sam.  I may be going gray but I’m not getting stupid.  I hear things.  I know you skated under the wire with that last case.  There’s a least half a dozen people in Houston alone who’d like to see you killed.”

“I’m not in Houston.”

“Good.  I’m glad to hear it.  But, look,” Joe said.  “I could make a call to New York, or Boston even.  I know guys in both departments.  You could go someplace else.  Start over.”

“I don’t want to start over, Joe.  I don’t want to wear a badge.  I’m not like you.”

“You were.  Once.”

“That’s the thing, Joe.  You
wanted
me to be like you.  You did everything you could to make me
become
like you.  But let’s face it.  I was a mess when you found me.  And I was a mess when I left the force.”  Sam stared out the grimy window of his hotel room at the winding streets of the Dutch city.  “Besides,” he said, pushing back from the window.  “That was a long time ago.  Are you going to tell me what you know about the Johnson murder, or not?”

Joe let out a long breath.  “What do you want to know?”

“How did she die?”

“You can read that much in the papers.”

“But your office hasn’t released the autopsy report.”

Joe paused.  “No.  We haven’t.”

“Why not?”

“We passed the files onto the feds.”

“I thought this case was in your jurisdiction?”

“They stepped in as soon as we found the connection between her and Cohen.”

“That… complicates things.”

“Yep.”

“But you saw the reports,” Sam pressed.  “You know what they say.”

“Yes,” Joe answered, slowly.  “I know what they say.”

“Then how did she die, Joe?”

“If I tell you, will you tell me what you know?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.  The reason we haven’t released the report to the public is because no toxins were found in Johnson’s body.  Without a chemical to trace, we don’t have a cause of death.  Our investigator’s best guess is that someone injected air into her bloodstream with a syringe.  But that would take someone with a high level of medical expertise.”

“And releasing that information would tip off your suspects,” Sam finished for him.

“Yes.”

“So you think it was someone from in the hospital?”

“It’s just a guess, but yes.  That’s what we think,” Joe concluded.

“I think so, too.”

Sam heard the squeak of a desk chair as Joe sat up, a rustle of papers as he reached for his notepad.  “Who do you—?”

“That’s all I know,” Sam said, clicking the phone shut and slipping it back in his pocket.  And as soon as he found Sydney, and Philip wired him the money, he’d call Joe and tell him the rest of what he suspected.  But not before he had that money.  And the house in the Bahamas.  And the future where no one could find him.

Picking up his passport and airline ticket, he slipped them into his pocket.  He’d always wanted to see Ireland.

***

“How long are we stopping?” Tara asked the bus driver when they pulled into the first town along the coast.

“About fifteen minutes.”

“Do I have enough time to run to the store?”

“You can do whatever you want as long as you’re back here in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you,” Tara said, ducking out of the bus and into a small convenience store on the corner.  Grabbing an oversized hooded sweatshirt from the display, she stepped into the beauty aisle, scanning the products for brown hair dye.  She snatched the first box she saw and turned, nearly jumping out of her skin when she felt the hand on her elbow.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, her gaze snapping up to meet a pair of angry gray eyes.  “What are you doing here?”